And Winterfell
by Min Daae
Summary: A multi-chapter fic based around the Stark family; several chapters up so far, continuously updated. New chapter: previous generation Starks!
1. Summer Days

Quiet, in Winterfell, was a rare and welcome pleasure for Catelyn Stark née Tully, she mused, sitting out in sun with one hand on the swell of her pregnancy.

"_Mother!_"

But mostly rare.

"Arya bit me!"

"You said I wouldn't."

"I didn't think you _would!_"

"Well, now you know better."

Her two daughters were still a ways away from her, but the volume of their argument carried; Sansa's voice slightly higher and a bit shrill at the moment, Arya sounding as sullen as ever. They both looked to be covered in dirt. Catelyn sighed, briefly, and wondered how two girls so close in age could be so different. Not that one would be able to tell Arya was a girl just by looking at her.

"You're just like a little _boy_," Sansa huffed at Arya, who bared her teeth and lunged at her sister. Catelyn imagined she heard her teeth click, but not before it was drowned out by Sansa's shriek. "You little _beast!_"

"Ha," Arya said, snickering, and Catelyn decided it was time to intervene, as Sansa's face heated precipitously.

"Sansa, Arya, what were you doing?"

Sansa, at least, had the grace to look embarrassed. Arya just looked vaguely wary. "We were just out in the godswood."

"And she _bit _me."

"I could do it again, too."

"Arya, that is _not _how a Lady behaves."

"I don't think I'll be a Lady, then. Bran wants to be a knight, I think I'll be a knight, too."

"You can't be a knight. Only _men _become knights."

"I can be a knight if I want to." Arya stuck out her tongue at her elder sister, who stuck out her tongue back. They stared at each other with narrowed eyes, suspicious. Catelyn shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Arya, but Sansa's right. You can't be a knight, and that means you must behave like a lady. And that means no biting."

"What's this about biting?"

Catelyn breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face her husband. Sansa burst in before she could reply, though.

"Arya bit me, father!" All eyes turned to the youngest girl, who shuffled her feet, and to Catelyn's chagrin, looked ashamed under her father's gaze.

"She asked for it."

"Arya," Ned said, sternly, though Catelyn thought there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye. "You can't go biting people. Then what would we do with the dogs? You'd have taken their job."

"_Father,_" Sansa said, loudly, but Arya laughed.

"Now apologize to your sister, and mind you do it sincerely."

"Sorry for biting you, Sansa," said Arya, and to Catelyn's ears didn't sound sincere at all, but Sansa threw back her shoulders and declaimed stiffly that she forgave her, because Arya was her _sister, _and Catelyn breathed a sigh of relief. Another crisis averted.

"Is _everyone _out here?" asked a slightly bewildered voice, from the edge of the courtyard. "I don't see Bran. Where'd he go?"

Catelyn turned to look at her eldest son and frowned to see that Jon Snow by his side again. She didn't like Robb's fondness for his bastard half-brother anymore than she liked Arya's fondness for him, or worse, Eddard's. "Where were _you_?" She asked, voice sharper than, perhaps, she meant it to be; but she didn't like the way he wandered. While the Wall was much farther north, it was closer than it had been in Riverrun, and that was far too close for her.

"I didn't go that far," Robb said, color rising in his cheeks, and Jon added, in his quiet voice, "Just out exploring a little ways. Not out of sight of the godswood."

"That sounds fine to me," Ned said, firmly, putting an end to Catelyn's attempt at scolding, and smiled, slightly. "Where _is _Bran?"

"Probably climbing," Arya said, offhandedly. "He's _always _climbing."

"Climbing what," she and Ned asked sharply, at the same time. Jon and Arya and Robb all glanced at each other and then looked conspicuously in different directions, though Robb flushed and Jon looked uncomfortable. Sansa, however, was already turning in circles.

"There!"

"_Sansa,_" hissed at least two voices. Robb spoke up, suddenly.

"It's fine, he's really good at it, I've watched him before," but Catelyn had spotted her youngest son as well and shot to her feet, staring at the small figure scaling the side of one of the older towers like a little spider.

"_Bran!_" and she was adamantly proud of how her voice managed to not quite be a shriek. "Get down from there!"

Either he didn't hear her or was ignoring her, and continued to climb. She took a few awkward, waddling steps in the direction of the tower and stopped. "Ned! _Do _something!" At that moment, however, Sansa yelped, and Arya bolted across the grass in a little brown blur. By the time Catelyn looked back up at the tower, her spider son had vanished. She panicked.

"She _bit _me again!"

"Sansa, silence! Robb – this is no _laughing matter! _What do you think you're _doing _letting your youngest brother go-"

"What about me?"

Catelyn turned and stared at her youngest son, who was grinning in an entirely too innocent manner. A moment later, Arya padded up behind him, also looking suspiciously innocent.

"Brandon Stark, what do you think you were doing climbing-"

"Wasn't me," he said, large eyed. Catelyn thought she heard someone snicker and wheeled on her family, lips thinning.

"Who was that?"

All five of the faces that stared back at her blankly were completely and utterly guileless. Including Eddard. She narrowed her eyes.

"_Who was that?_"

They glanced at each other, and Eddard said, innocently, "I didn't hear anything."

Sansa broke first, with a nervous little giggle. Then Arya snorted, and then they were all laughing. Loudly. She felt her cheeks redden, and redden, and finally raised her voice and yelled at the top of her lungs, "All of you _inside_!" The laughter faded into muffled giggles, then silence, and she took a deep breath before continuing. _"_Is it so much to _ask _for a quiet afternoon? You – Ned – _keep them in line. _I'll be here. Resting." She sat down, deliberately. "And anyone who says anything about climbing or biting or _anything _can clean everyone's dishes tonight."

There was a brief silence, then a sheepish chorus of "yes, mother". Then more silence.

"I'm sorry for bothering you, Mother," Robb said, tentatively, eventually.

"It's all right," said Arya, wisely, "I think it's the baby."

"You're not mother," Sansa accused.

"I think he's going to be a little brother. I like little brothers."

"I hope he's a sister."

"Why would you _ever _want a sister?"

"_Children._" Eddard's voice cut through all of them, and there was a moment of hurried scurrying and then silence as the little pack of wolf cubs trailed inside. Catelyn breathed a grateful sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

"Are you feeling all right?" He put his arms around her, kissed her hair, and she relaxed fully. "Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm all right. Just tired."

"It shouldn't be long now," he said, softly.

"And then I have another little wolf to take care of," she groaned, but with a smile. "Do you have a name?"

"Rickon, I'm thinking," Ned said, with a small smile. "We haven't had a Rickon in a while." Catelyn considered that.

"Rickon sounds good to me. And for a girl?" Ned hesitated.

"Would you mind if …Lyanna?" He asked, quietly. Catelyn didn't quite shiver, forcing herself still.

"Of course I wouldn't mind," she lied, though the thought made her cold. Lyanna's fate…for any of her children…

Ned kissed her forehead, with a little flash of that rare smile she loved so well. "I'd better go in or Arya will have Sansa in fits." Catelyn laughed at that, fondly.

"Yes, go. I'll be here."

As he strode silently away, the quiet settled again and Catelyn breathed a peaceful sigh, letting her eyes drift closed. Of course, as the Stark words reminded her, Winter Is Coming; but for now, the summer itself was beautiful.


	2. Stark and Snow

For a long time, Robb hadn't understood why his mother disliked Jon so much. At some point he'd had some muddled idea that it was because Jon looked like his father instead of like her as he and Sansa did. But then there was Arya, and Arya looked like their father too, and even if sometimes his mother seemed to despair of her she still undeniably loved her.

It was only Jon she hated.

Robb and Jon had always been close; they'd begun working with wooden swords at the same time, learned to walk around the same time, learned the same words. Despite all of his mother's efforts to keep them apart, having a boy his own age was a lure Robb could never have resisted, even if it wasn't Jon – quiet, solemn, occasionally somewhat biting Jon. All Catelyn's efforts ever succeeded in was confusing him. He never asked Jon about it, that he could remember; even that young having an idea that it would be untactful.

He thought it was probably Theon who'd first told him about Jon's being a bastard. Theon and Jon had never liked each other, but Robb liked Theon nearly as much as Jon, even if sometimes the way he talked bothered Robb in a subtle way, like an unscratchable itch. But Theon, who was older and far worldlier, scoffed at Robb's confusion.

"He's called Snow," Theon said, lip curling a little in disdain. "That's the North's version of a bastard name. Jon Snow's a bastard, that's what it is."

He'd known what bastardy was, and known to some degree what it meant, but for a while longer, even after he knew what it was, Robb hadn't been able to understand why it mattered, or how Catelyn could hate him for something that wasn't his fault.

Jon understood before he did. Jon knew the implications long before Robb began to fathom them. That was when he started talking less, and wandering more, though he stayed close to Arya. Perhaps because Jon, looking at Robb, could only see the Heir to Winterfell, and know he would only ever be Eddard Stark's bastard.

He first began to understand when he overheard the argument between his father and mother. "Send him away!" She had cried. "Other men, every other man-"

"I cannot simply abandon him," his father had said, stiffly.

"And I cannot have him here! Is this about his mother?"

His father's voice had gone cold. "Do not, Catelyn."

"Is she still alive somewhere, is that it? Is she beautiful, and you plan for the day when you shall be rid of me and-"

"No," his father had said, flatly, and then his voice went too low and quiet to hear, and Robb, frightened, crept away.

Sometime when they were out together, though, Robb lying on the grass looking up at the blue sky, Jon leaning back against a tree, he made the mistake of bringing it up.

"Who's your mother, Jon?"

"I don't know." Short, simple, but Robb could hear the slight tension in Jon's voice. Like an idiot, he kept on. "Father and mother – well, my mother – were talking about it."

"Arguing," Jon corrected, flatly.

"Arguing," Robb agreed, quite oblivious. "And – well, I wondered if you knew, that's all."

"I don't."

He'd let the silence rest for a few moments, thinking over that, and then asked abruptly, "Is that why my mother hates you so much?"

Jon was quiet; he could hear his half-brother breathing. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because." Jon stood up, abruptly. "I'm going back."

Finally, Robb caught the tension and underlying anger in his voice, and rolled over to look at him. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I should just go back."

Robb frowned. "What'd I say?" This time he saw Jon twitch.

"Nothing."

"You don't think I'm going to believe that."

Jon looked away. "You can stop rubbing my face in it, all right?" Robb blinked.

"I – what?"

"I _know _she's _your _mother, not mine. I know she hates me. That doesn't mean I want to hear about it." Jon's voice was tight.

"What do you – what do you mean, what are you talking about?" Robb shoved himself up. "I was just asking…"

"Just asking," Jon snapped, "Because I'm just a bastard, because I'm no one important."

"I never said that-"

"She's your mother, just like this is _your _castle and _your _life and _your _future. I understand, okay? That doesn't mean you have to go and shove my face in it every chance you get-"

"I – what? Jon…"

"Jon _Snow,_" Jon snapped, voice rising, "Jon Snow, and no one's ever going to let me forget it, least of all _you. _Lord Robb."

He felt a little twinge of hurt. "I wasn't trying to say anything about…"

"You have a mother. You have a family. You have Winterfell. You don't have to try." And he turned and stalked off, in a cloud of anger and bitterness.

Then, he'd understood.

Things had never been the same between them, after that; oh, they tried, and still did things together, but gradually Robb spent more time with Theon and Jon spent more time alone. Robb thought, bitterly, once or twice, that his mother must be pleased, but the thought was unkind and he always pushed it away quickly. Because he understood a bit more, now; understood more than he really wanted to.

Because he was the Heir to Winterfell, and Jon was only a bastard. A bastard without any certain parentage or any certain future: they were worlds and worlds apart.


	3. Swordsplay

It wasn't really, Arya sulked, her fault. Not really. But no one else would ever see it that way. Stupid Sansa. She fidgeted uncomfortably and kept her glare to her shoes.

She hadn't even been _doing _anything to start it. Just poking around in the stables, really, trying to catch a mouse, though they were all too fast. It'd been one of those afternoons when everyone was out or inside _needleworking _like her airheaded sister, and she'd been bored, and the stables were more interesting than most of the other alternatives. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But that stupid boy – the stable boy, who was a couple years older than her and maybe a foot taller and _really _stupid – not just Hodor stupid, but actually stupid, the annoying way.

It was his fault, really.

"What're you doing?" He asked, in that voice that said he thought she was doing something wrong and he was going to do something about it.

"Trying to catch a mouse," she'd said, perched outside one of the little holes waiting. They'd have to come out eventually.

"You can't do that," he said, and that put her back up right away, and she gave him that look that anyone else would have known meant to shut up and go away or you'll be in trouble. He ignored it. "And you're not supposed to be in here."

"Who says?"

"Lady Catelyn, I heard her scolding you last week," he said, all smugly, and, well, that was true, but there was no need for him to point it out.

"She changed her mind," Arya lied, offhandedly. The stableboy frowned.

"She did not."

"Did so. And you're bothering me."

"You're not supposed to be here, and you can't catch mice anyway, you're a _Lady. _Ladies don't catch _mice _in _stables._"

Arya's head turned slowly to look at him, coolly. Cold as ice. And as implacable. "Say that again."

"Lady," he said, and laughed, "Some 'lady' you are. That sister of yours-"

Arya drew herself up ramrod straight. "All right. I'll _show _you how much of a lady I am." And turned to the back of the stables, marching into one of the rooms. A moment later, she returned with two wooden swords, mouth set in a grim line. "Right. We'll see who beats who with these."

His eyes widened. "I can't fight you with those. You're a _girl. _Girls don't play with swords. And they don't make you a Lady."

"Watch me. Are you craven?" She unleashed a feral, cocky grin at him. "'Cause if you won't fight I win by default."

He grappled with that a few moments, then stuck out his hand. "Give me that. I bet you don't even know how to use it."

Arya shrugged, nonchalantly. "Neither do you. Can't be that hard." She'd stepped back, holding the sword as she'd seen her older brothers do, and then lunged on the attack.

He parried her first few strokes clumsily, startled at her aggressivity, but regained the advantage of his height and years shortly. It wasn't long before he landed a stinging blow on her shoulder.

"Right," he said, stepping back, "That's it, I win."

"Not that easily, you don't," she snapped, and leapt forward again, jabbing viciously with her makeshift weapon, twisting nimbly away from his counter-attacks. "Too slow!" Arya jeered, and attempted a disarming motion she'd seen Jon do before. To her surprise, it worked, the wooden sword clattering away and the stableboy shaking his hand with a yelp. She grinned, triumphant.

"I win," she said, gloatingly, and then added with an impudent little bow, "Good ser," and it would have been perfect that way, but he'd growled, "you little-" and jumped on her, and of course she couldn't help but fight back, and it wasn't really her fault that she'd been winning, too.

So they'd been pummeling merrily at each other when Sansa happened to turn a corner, let out a gasp they probably heard in King's Landing, and ran like the little tell-tale she was to their mother, who had brought her father and her brothers and everyone, and by then she'd been losing, too.

She'd gotten a black eye, some bruised ribs, and a sore shoulder for her trouble. The stableboy looked worse, though. Arya was fairly sure that she'd broken his nose. (Very privately, she allowed a small twinge of pride.)

The lecture she'd gotten from her mother _and _her father, and the huffy way Sansa was wandering around with her nose in the air and even the fact that she hadn't caught a mouse to put in her sister's bed after all – that was all made up for by the fact that she'd definitely won, and was not a Lady, either.

She kicked her feet back and forth and glanced sideways at Septa Mordane. And sighed.

Would have been worth it, anyway, if she weren't locked inside.

And it wasn't even her fault. Not exactly.

(When she got out of here, Arya noted to herself, she'd have to remember to tell Jon. She thought he, at least, would be proud of her.)


	4. Direwolf

The Beginning

The first thing he remembered was cold, trying to keep his siblings close to the cooling corpse of their mother, because at least her fur might provide some warmth for his shivering brothers and sisters – he tried to keep track of them all, but wasn't quite sure.

Shivering, he smelled them coming and tried to crouch lower in the snow, recognizing the smell as something to be feared, but they lifted him by the scruff of his neck just as his mother might have, and then brought him close. There wasn't any fur, but there was warmth, and he could smell his sisters and brothers not far away and hear their whimpers quieting.

He whined, asking for a response, and counted the little yelps he got in return. When he was sure he had heard all of their voices, he curled up against the warm not-furry thing and went to sleep.

_Robb carried the little ball of fur home protectively wrapped in his arms, hardly aware of anything else, watching his sides rise and fall. The little thing had stopped shivering and nestled comfortably against his chest, periodically making little noises that wouldn't have been out of place on a hound puppy. _

"_What are you going to name him?" Bran wanted to know, holding his own tawny puppy just as carefully. Robb looked down at his puppy seriously. _

"_I'll find something that fits," he said firmly, eventually. It would have to be a good name. A perfect name. _

_Back at Winterfell, he escaped to his room as soon as possible. The puppy woke briefly and looked up at him with eyes he could have sworn held an intelligent light. Robb scratched him behind his ears thoughtfully. "I hope you don't mind it here," he said, seriously. "There's plenty of room for you to run when you grow a little." _

_The puppy snuffled almost as though he understood and buried his head back in Robb's shirt, sleepily, making a little warm glow in the pit of his stomach. He let himself smile a little. "I guess I'll take that as acceptance," he told the half asleep wolf-cub, and leaned back to let the little beast rest on his chest. _

_His mother came by later to find him still watching it sleep and told him in no uncertain terms that she was not going to have any direwolves on anyone's bed. He'd meekly complied and set up a little bed of clothes in the corner to settle the puppy – who he was already beginning to call Grey Wind, for no certain reason he could identify. _

_However, when he woke up halfway through the night, there was a small furry lump curled up next to him, and Robb didn't have the heart to push him off. _

The End

The anger in him had no outlet, anger and uneasiness and a sense of betrayal. His brother had _left _him here and walked into that nest of snakes, unwittingly into that den stinking of treachery and danger. He bared his teeth and snapped at nothing.

"Easy," said the man his brother had left with him, who smelled anxious and wary enough to belie the calming tone of his voice. "Just a bit longer…I don't expect we'll stay…"

Grey Wind hoped not. He turned in an anxious circle, restless and uncomfortable. Something was going to go wrong, something was going to go terribly wrong and he wouldn't be there to stop it-

He heard the screaming start and went stiff, ears pricking, trying to make out who it might be, what was going on, but then Raynald heard it too and stood, hand resting on his sword. "What is that?"

Grey Wind snarled, low in his throat.

Then it came, a stabbing pain that wasn't his own, and he shook himself with a startled yelp as it came again and he understood and lunged forward, furious – _they were hurting his brother. _He had to reach him, would pull him out with his teeth if he had to-

The yelling grew louder. He strained against the rope hold him, willing it to break. Raynald drew his sword, smelling of fear now, too. "What in seven hells is going on," he started to say, and then an arrow whipped through the open stable door and slammed into his chest. He stumbled back, choking, and his sword cut through Grey Wind's rope, finally, freeing him.

He bounded forward without a thought for the man behind him, focused only on reaching his packbrother. But it had been too late.

Something snuffed out, somewhere, and the great direwolf lurched sideways, stumbling as he felt his brother die and knew he had failed, knew he had let him walk into that den. He should have dragged him away by force, should have killed them all before letting Robb do such a foolish thing…or at least not let him leave his protector behind…

He threw his head back and howled his heartbreak. Grey Wind could hear them coming, hear the baying of their dogs, and let his fur puff up, making himself twice his size. The arrows came first, but he was already moving, red mouth open.

He would show them how wolves fought.


	5. A Lady

It seemed for the first few days after they found the direwolves, they and his children were inseparable. He saw little of them for a while. Except for Sansa. It was Sansa who came to him cradling her little girl, a pale grey, and looked at him shyly and asked if he would help her think of a name for her.

"She's your little girl," Ned told her, sternly, watching the pup nuzzle at Sansa's fur collar hopefully, and wondering if the little thing remembered the mother it had lost. "You should give her a name."

"But I don't know," Sansa said, almost despairingly, "Arya wants to name hers after some _lady hero _and Rickon's already calling his Shaggydog and Robb's got Grey Wind, but I don't know what I want to name her. I tried calling her Alysanne, but it didn't fit."

Ned almost smiled. "I think the name is just a bit big for her, right now. Give her a bit to grow into it." Sansa shook her head.

"No, it's not right. I know it's not. And I thought you might be able to help."

His eldest daughter looked up at him, eyes shining with love and trust, and as always, Ned melted a little. "May I hold her?" He asked, reaching out his hands to take the little pup. Sansa nodded.

"Be gentle," she warned, seriously, "She's so little, _I'm _worried about hurting her."

"You won't," Ned assured her, "These pups are old enough that they'd be used to a little rough play. And I held you when you were smaller." Sansa blushed, and shuffled her feet a little, but he saw her smile, a sweet, gentle little smile that would have young men falling over themselves to please her in a few years, just to get that smile. His beautiful little daughter.

Gently, he cradled the direwolf cub as he would any young animal, even as she made a small and plaintive noise like a cry, noise sniffing at empty air, head swiveling toward Sansa. Ned smiled slightly, and turned her to examine the young thing.

He didn't know how his children had done it, but their wolves seemed well suited to them, and Sansa's pup was no exception. Her nose was longer than the others, with something of daintiness about it already, her clumsiness charming rather than awkward, and he could see she would grow up long-legged, with rich and pale fur. A lovely little girl indeed. A beautiful little-

"Lady," he said, or suggested, looking up at Sansa, "How about Lady? It's what you are, and I think she'll grow into a fine little direwolf lady too."

Sansa giggled. "Are there direwolf ladies, father?"

"I'm sure there are," he smiled, teasing, and tapped her nose with one finger. "And direwolf princes, too.

"Do you think Lady will want to marry one?" Sansa asked, with utmost, innocent, seriousness, and Ned smiled, and laughed.

"Well, we'll have to make sure she knows to ask permission first, won't we?" He carefully offered Lady back to Sansa. "You like that name?"

"I think it's her name," Sansa said, with young and childish certainty, "I think it was her name all along, and you just found it for her." She paused, fidgeted, and setting Lady to the floor, flung her arms around him. "Thank you, father."

Ned smiled more broadly and hugged his first daughter back, keeping a careful eye on the newly christened Lady. "Don't thank me. I just found it, after all; it was there all along." Letting her go, he kissed Sansa's hair lightly, and she smiled her little smile and kissed his cheek.

"It doesn't matter. I might never have found it by myself."

For a moment, Ned felt a twinge, and wanted to tell Sansa to keep Lady by her, and to be careful, and cautious – but he feared it would spoil his daughter's happiness, and he merely stood as she scooped up the little pup and held her to her chest, and curtseyed.

"Thank you, father," she said, and added earnestly, "I'll take good care of her, I promise I will," before fleeing into the corridor, light-footed and silent. Ned sighed and looked after her.

Still his little girl. Part of him hoped Sansa would never grow up.


	6. Third Child

It was not a good day.

Her back hurt, she was cranky and hot, her breasts were sore, and the baby hadn't stopped kicking once all day, making it impossible to get comfortable even lying down. And on top of that, she felt huge, and awkward, and couldn't walk anywhere at anything more graceful than a waddle.

Motherhood was always a joy, but this was her least favorite part of the whole business, Catelyn thought bitterly. It would at least be nice if her back wouldn't ache quite so much. Perhaps this child was another boy, with how unrelentingly active it was.

At least, she thought, with a small smile, she had a loving and attentive husband. More than some women could expect, she knew. It was still a relief to have the children away with Old Nan for the moment.

"Cat?" She turned to face her husband, putting a smile on her face and hoping he didn't notice the strain.

"Forgive me if I don't curtsey," she said, though, eyes sparkling a little, "It's terribly uncomfortable at the moment."

"Then I wouldn't demand it. Why don't you sit down, if you're so uncomfortable?"

Catelyn made a face. "Because then the baby kicks like a little devil. I think we're going to have another energetic little boy on our hands." As if to object to the sudden cessation of movement, the baby kicked again, hard, forcing a little noise of surprise from Catelyn. "Oh-!"

Ned caught her, arm around her shoulders. "I think you should sit down nonetheless," he said, in that soothing voice that men could trust; that she could trust, as he guided her into a sitting room nearby and to a chair.

"It's nothing," Catelyn said, but didn't fight him hard, following meekly. "Sansa hardly kicked at all – I guess I'm just spoiled." Ned knelt beside her.

"I remember. You think this one will be a boy as well?"

"Of course, I hardly know. But perhaps." She grunted as the baby kicked again, twice, one-two. "Settle, you," she scolded, lightly, "It's not time just yet."

"Let me try," offered Ned, and set both his hands on the swell of her pregnant belly. The kicking stilled at once.

"Well, you've certainly got his attention," Catelyn said, with a small smile, head craned to watch him. She could see Ned smile slightly.

"Hush, there'll be time for that aplenty soon enough. Give your poor mother a bit of a rest." There was quiet for a few moments, and then Catelyn laughed.

"Definitely a boy. See how he responds to you already! You work miracles." She felt a little bit of a twinge of jealousy, but that was nonsense. At least it was nice to have a respite. Ned left his hands where they were, though.

"And how are you otherwise, Cat? You looked horribly irritable when I first saw you. It concerned me."

Catelyn sighed, a little. "Oh, Ned. I'm tired, that's all." He stood and moved around behind her, hands on her shoulders beginning to work at the knots there. Catelyn leaned back into his hands and couldn't suppress a sigh of relief.

"You should go to the baths."

"It's too hot," Catelyn complained. "_I'm _too hot. And it's a long way to waddle." Ned stopped massaging her shoulders.

"Waddle?"

"Yes," she said irritably, "It's about all I can do just now."

"You do not waddle." Ned sounded, oddly, personally affronted. "You walk as gracefully as ever." Catelyn sighed.

"Ned, I appreciate your kindness, but I am very aware that my movement is less than graceful. I am currently large and unwieldy, and it's uncomfortable, yes, but I am fine with it."

Ned frowned, coming around to take her chin and tilt her up to look at him. "You're as beautiful always, Catelyn. I have never found you more so."

"Can you just go back to massaging my shoulders?"

He chuckled and moved back to work at her muscles, fingers strong and confident. "It'll all be worth it, is that what you're saying?"

Catelyn smiled. "That is what I'm saying. It'll all be worth it, soon enough." He leaned over and kissed her forehead, lightly.


	7. My Sister's Keeper

When everyone else was looking frantically for their little sister/daughter/lady in Winterfell or the stables, Brandon went to the godswood. Just as he'd expected, he found her ensconced firmly under a fallen log, mouth twisted in her unhappy way and knees pulled up to her chest. She shot him an annoyed look.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, sitting down, "I didn't bring anyone else. Did I? No. See? You know you've got everyone panicking."

"I know it."

"You know, if you want to play seek-and-find it's generally helpful to let people know first."

"Don't be an idiot, Brandon. I'm not playing anything. I wanted to be by myself. So you can leave."

"Or you'll sulk at me, I know. What's got you in a knot, little sister?"

She ducked further back under the log. "I'm not ready to be married." If Brandon were honest, then he thought Lyanna was a bit young too, even more so for Ned's boisterous friend. But that particular opinion would not be helpful.

"You're not married. Who told you you're married?"

"Don't be dense. Everyone's talking about it. Mostly father, though, about how he hopes I'll make him proud-" She made a face. "I don't want to marry and I don't want to have children and I don't want to leave Winterfell."

"You're betrothed. That's different. You're not going to be married for a while, and something might happen to break it off." Probably not, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He sat up a little straighter. "And he's friends with Ned, anyway. He'll probably let you do most of the stuff you do here just the same. And it's warmer in the south."

"I don't want to be warm." She made a face. "I like the cold. I'm a _Stark._ I'd melt in the warm."

"You probably would, at that." Brandon frowned sideways at his sister. They had more in common with each other than Ned, or even with Benjen, but sometimes he was reminded of how young Lyanna was. Or at least seemed to be to him. "But it's not for years yet. Maybe you'll become a proper lady between now and then, who knows?"

She laughed, a little, if muffledly, and he felt encouraged. "Now come out. You know it's silly to stay under there. And you're probably getting worms in your hair."

"I don't mind that."

"_I _do." She emerged from her little cave. "Besides, if you stay there too long you'll turn into some kind of rodent and I can't have a rodent for a sister." He smiled at her, and was slightly encouraged that she smiled back.

"Brandon," she asked, after a short silence, as they started back, "Aren't you anxious about your marriage?"

"No," he said, honestly, "I'm rather looking forward to it, actually. Lady Catelyn has a brother, and a well liked one, at least, so even if she's boring and ugly I can at least talk to him." The muffled noise of amusement he heard enabled more of a smile. "I know she isn't, though. Tully women have a reputation, you know."

Lyanna's eyes were a little wide as she looked up at him – but not far. Lyanna had always been tall for a girl. She looked curious. "What kind of reputation?"

"Now that," Brandon said, "Would be telling," and could barely keep from blushing and laughing both for the look she gave him. They met Benjen and Ned halfway back, and by the time they were close enough to talk Lyanna was sufficiently recovered from her mood to hit Benjen in the head with a dirt-clod, thus starting a truly glorious fight.

Trudging home covered in filth, all four of them grinning ear to ear, Brandon knew there would be consequences, but couldn't get the spring out of his step. It was worth it. Looking sideways at his younger siblings, he'd never been prouder just to be their brother.


	8. Dreams

"I had a dream," Bran said, almost bouncing on his toes, and Robb had to try not to laugh. Bran always had dreams to tell when they went walking together. It was very cold, and their mother hadn't really wanted them to go, but it was only to the godswood.

"Best be careful, Bran. Sometimes I think you like your dreams more than us. I'm never very nice in your dreams, though."

Bran scowled up at him. "That was only one, and I told you, it was because an evil lady was controlling you, so it wasn't really you. You got better." Robb reached out and ruffled his little brother's hair, because he knew Bran hated it.

"I got better. All right, I guess that's fine then. All right, tell me about your dream."

"As long as you listen without interrupting." Bran cleared his throat. "All right. I was flying."

Bran flew a lot in his dreams. Robb thought it was because he climbed so much, or maybe he climbed so much because he wanted to fly. Robb almost never remembered his dreams, or when he did they were weird jumbles of real life and things that would never happen – like losing Bran in the woods. "I was flying," Bran said again, "And everything was all white, covered in snow, but then I flew down and I wasn't flying anymore, I was running on four legs, like a wolf."

"Don't turn into a wolf, Bran, I'd never know which one you were," Robb said, seriously, and Bran stuck out his tongue.

"I'm just telling you how it went. But I was running as a wolf and there was an enormous flock of ravens but I ran right through them, and then I was flying again-" Bran gesticulated wildly, holding his arms out like wings and spinning around as though he were indeed flying. Robb muffled his laugh.

"And then?"

"And then," Bran said, dramatically, "I landed on a mountaintop, and I was wearing beautiful silver armor with a wolf's head on the front, and I was the best knight anywhere and I'd just killed a dragon and the children of the forest were coming up the mountain just so they could talk to _me._" He paused. "And then I woke up. But it was a really good dream."

Children of the forest, dragons, a knight. All it needed was Others. Robb smiled, though, and applauded. "You're a regular storyteller, Bran. It sounds like a good dream. You'd make a very brave knight."

"I will," Bran said, firmly, "I _will _make a very good knight, not maybe. I'll be the best knight there ever was anywhere _ever._" Robb shook his head but mussed Bran's hair again.

"All right. But you'll have to look somewhere else for dragons. We don't have any here anymore." Bran scowled.

"I know _that. _It was just a dream anyway. I wouldn't want to kill a dragon, I'd want to ride it."

"You couldn't ride a dragon," Robb said, high-handedly. "You can barely even ride your pony-"

"I can so!" Bran threw a punch at Robb's shoulder and Robb pretended to crumple with a yelp, letting Bran pounce on him. His younger brother sat on his chest and Robb wheezed.

"Quarter, quarter. All right, you can ride a pony. But not a dragon. You're not a dragon. There aren't any more of them." Bran clambered off, still scowling.

"You're no fun, Robb. Next time I have a dream I'm going to make sure that you're mean and it won't even be because of an evil lady. You just are mean." Robb, still on his back, reached over and tugged his little brother into a tight hug.

"You're doing just fine, Bran. You should tell Jon that story. I bet he'd like it." Bran brightened.

"You think so? Well, it was a good dream. I liked it." He sighed. "Mostly I liked flying. I wish I could fly. I know people don't, but it would be wonderful."

Robb made a face. "I don't know. I think it'd be cold and kind of dizzying. But I don't like heights." Bran sighed as though he had no clue how anyone in their right or wrong mind could not like heights, but then bounced up on his toes.

"Robb! The godswood! That reminds me – I forgot to tell you, last night I had a dream…"

If the sun came out it would have been a perfect day. Robb tilted his head and listened to his brother's dreams.


End file.
